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19 September 2010

Assalaamu Aleikum!


We disembarked from Casablanca, Morocco at 2100 on Tuesday, September 14th and have since had little time to email family let alone update my blog. As soon as we can no longer see the shoreline, classes and “typical” university activities are back in full swing. The 7 days and 8 nights that we spend at sea between Morocco and Ghana are all school days, meaning that today, Sunday, I got up at 0800 for class and will have two more classes before 1630. No complaints, but the words recuperate or relax have been almost completely stripped from my vocabulary.

Morocco was a whirlwind, and I predict that most of my future blog posts will begin with this sentiment. We arrived early into Casablanca and made our way out of the industrial (phosphate, yuck) port and into the city to be introduced to our first real taste of the term culture shock. Absolute chaos converged at a four-way intersection with people, cabs, donkeys, trucks, and about 100 bright-eyed and bushy-tailed American students trying to cross the street with no lights signals or assistance. It took us 15 minutes to make maybe 400 meters progress.

Thankfully, the first hour in Casablanca did not characterize the entire visit… but it did set the stage for what I’ll be up against as the voyage inches its way east.

Over the course of the next 4 days, I made my way from Casablanca to Marrakech, Marrakech to Essaouria, Essaouria to Safi, then back to Casablanca. I did not know what heat was until I stood in the Jamaa El Fna, Marrakech’s most famous souk and square, in jeans, a sweater, and a scarf (for modesty). I’ll tell you, it felt like death. I have so much more respect and empathy for Muslim women who absolutely boil in the Sahara or Middle East in their hijabs, let alone burkahs. Jamaa El Fna is everything that you’ve seen in National Geographic and more: snake charmers, monkeys, hookah, orange juice, spices, brightly colored textiles, mint tea, berber rugs, and more. Bartering, yelling, drumming, flutes – noise, noise, noise. It sounds silly, but in Marrakech I felt like I had stepped into the behind-the-scenes version of the Disney movie Aladdin.

Other parts of Morocco, however, do not proselytize this famous enchantment. Quite the contrary – the humble and bumpy bus ride from Marrakech to Essaouria told a story of devotion to Allah, family values, and hard work. A splattering of stony communities surrounded by maybe a dozen or so argan or olive farms were the only semblances of life that interrupted miles upon miles of sprawling dirt and rock plains. Approaching the coast, we traveled through a number of small towns – each one distinguishable from the next based on the uniqueness and stature of their Mosques – where men sat outside cafés drinking espresso and children played in the dirt. Finally, at the seashore, young boys littered the beaches and the mood of the Medina and souk is much more relaxed and easy.

It’s amazing how across the globe the differences between dense urban cities, plains, and coasts are so pronounced. My time in Morocco would not have been the same without each special perspective of lifestyle and sense of purpose.

I spent my last day in Morocco at a slower pace, beginning with a mid-morning misty visit to the Hassan II Mosque – second largest and most impressive to Mecca. Wow. Unbelievable. I’ve been lucky enough to experience some of the world’s most elaborate Christian holy monuments, but nothing compares to the marvel that is Hassan II. The Mosque is set on a cliff that overlooks the Atlantic Ocean, but on this particular morning the fog was so dense that the whole place felt like it was sitting on a giant cloud. The mosque was for the most part desolate so the reverie of the silence – next to the chaos that is Casablanca – was extremely humbling.

Faith is a huge, if not the most important, part of Moroccan culture. Luckily and unluckily, we arrived in Casablanca a day before the end of Ramadan. Ramadan is a month long holy practice that involves Sawn, the fourth pillar of Islam, of fasting during daylight hours. Beyond food, drinking, smoking, and sexual activity are also renounced from dawn to sunset the entire month as the entire community experiences solidarity in the practices of unselfishness and abstinence from desire. We were lucky in the sense that we bore exquisite witness to ending and subsequent celebration of such a sacred practice so close to it’s origins. We were unlucky because of our indiscrete American presence and the association we bore to the Floridian pastor who threatened to burn Korans. I didn’t run into any trouble, Moroccans are phenomenally hospitable, but some people I know did (and for good reason, to be perfectly honest). I approached the entire situation as follows: I am only one American, but my actions can work to remedy the ignorance and selfishness that define pockets of a nation. The Moroccans I communicated with received me kindly, and any inconspicuous thoughts they may have had about my culture or me were hopefully remedied by my respect and desire to learn about their families, their homes, their traditions. I could spend another 500 words describing the utter disgust I feel toward this pastor or whoever subscribes to his same worldview, but that too would be selfish and in the spirit of Ramadan’s close, I will refrain.

After some time to reflect, I realize that I left Morocco with only half the story. All of my encounters were with men. Men dominate this part of the world – banks, cafés, the souks, restaurants, taxis, tour operations, etc. The women were “around” but they were eerily silent. As most of you know, I’m absolutely fascinated by women and the Muslim tradition. I noticed the absence of female interaction maybe much more than my peers because I believe their experience to be especially unique to men. We stopped at an Argan co-operative in the middle of who knows where on the way from Marrakech to Morocco where I tried to make conversation with the female employees – much to my surprise, the women that did speak English-French were actually immigrants from Israel. Go figure. A community, a country, a world can only be half defined by its male population so I can’t leave Morocco with its entire truth.

I’ll come back to Morocco someday, and get the full story. For now I keep my short and wild time there in my heart as I continue my journey to sub-Saharan Africa: Ghana, another country of wonder and excitement, and the first of all Africa to gain independence from colonial reign.

Until next time, love to you all.
Ma’a salaama

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